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Selected Poems of 
Henry Ames Blood 

i 



The l!«rary of 
gc digress, 

Two GOr'ES fttCEIVER 

DEC. U 1901 

COPVRIQHT ENTRY 



KXc. NO 



COPY A 



Copyright, 1901, by Mary M. Blood 



CONTENTS 

« 

Jeanette 9 

The Rock in the Sea 11 

The Chimney-Nook 13 

The Last Visitor 16 

The War of the Dryads 17 

Yearnings 20 

The Old Year 23 

The Two Enchantments 26 

Fantasie 27 

The Masque in Fantasie 30 

The Grand Orchestra 34 

Sighs in the South 37 

Thoreau 40 

TJie Invisible Piper 44 

Shakespeare 46 

At the Grave 49 

Pro Mortuis 50 

The Serene Message 51 

A vii 



Comrades 52 

May Flowers 53 

The Fairy Boat 56 

A Midnight Chorus 58 

The Song of the Savoyards 61 

Webster 64 

Old Friends 66 

Margie .... 69 

Saint Goethe's Night 72 

The Fighting Parson 77 

The Drummer . 82 

Ad Astra 87 



viu 



Selected Poems of 
HENRY AMES BLOOD 

JEANETTE. 

It is no wonder I should be 

More sad in pleasant weather, 
For on a young June day like this 

We strolled the fields together ; 
0, never lived a maid more dear 

In everybody's praises ! — 
Jeanette was picking buttercups 

And I was picking daisies. 

Her beauty and her grace, it seemed, 

The saddest heart might rally, 
But though she gently led my steps 

Through all the quiet valley, 
The words of love I tried to speak 

Dissolved in empty phrases ; 
And so she pulled her buttercups. 

And so I picked my daisies. 

But when she coyly raised my chin 
And with a charming flutter. 

Held up her golden prize beneath 
And asked — if I loved butter ! 
9 



10 JEANETTE 

then, in words that blossomed forth 
Like flowers from heavenly vases, 

1 told her how the buttercups 
Were loved by all the daisies. 

She often visits me in dreams, 

And then in sumptuous vision, 
We walk through meadows full of light, 

We roam the Fields Elysian ; 
And side by side we loiter on 

Through all the starry mazes ; 
She picks immortal buttercups 

And I celestial daisies. 

Where now so peacefully she lies, 

Pale evening loves to linger. 
And morning comes in tears, to touch 

Her grave with rosy finger. 
And every June that rambles by, 

A moment turns and gazes ; 
Then lays his offering on the sod. 

In buttercups and daisies. 

l' ENVOI. 

Full well I know she loves me still. 

For oft, through skyey portals. 
She gives to me the sweetest smile 

That angels have for mortals ; 
And evermore to guide my steps 

Through all the world's mizmazes, 
Wears on her breast the light of stars 

In buttercups and daisies. 

Harper's Weekly, May 19, 1879. 



THE ROCK Ix\ THE SEA 11 



THE ROCK IN THE SEA. 

They say that yonder rock once towered 

Upon a wide and grassy plain, 
Lord of the land, until the sea 

Usurped his green domain : 
Yet now remembering the fair scene 

Where once he reigned without endeavor, 
The great rock in the ocean stands 

And battles with the waves forever. 

How oft, O rock, must visit thee 

Sweet visions of the ancient calm 
All amorous with birds and bees, 

And odorous with balm ! 
Ah me, the terrors of the time 

When the grim, wrinkled sea advances, 
And winds and waves with direful cries 

Arouse thee from thy happy trances ! 

To no soft tryst they waken thee. 

No sunny scene of perfect rest. 
But to the raging sea's vanguard 

Thundering against thy breast : 
No singing birds are round thee, now, 

But the wild winds, the roaring surges, 
And gladly would they hurl thee down 

And mock thee in eternal dirges. 



12 THE ROCK IN THE SEA 

But be it tliine to conquer them ; 

And may thy firm-enduring form 
Still frown upon the hurricane, 

Still grandly front the storm : 
And while the tall ships come and go, 

And come and go the generations, 
May thy proud presence yet remain 

A wonder unto all the nations. 

Sometime, perchance, O lonely rock. 

Thou mayest regain thine ancient seat, 
Mayest see once more the meadow shine. 

And hear the pasture bleat : 
But ah, methinks even then thy breast 

Would stir and yearn with fond emotion. 
To meet once more in glorious war 

The roaring cohorts of the ocean. 

Let me, like thee, thou noble rock, 

Pluck honor from the seas of time ; 
Where Providence doth place my feet 

There let me stand sublime : 
life, 't is very sweet to lie 

Upon thy shores without endeavor, 
But sweeter far to breast thy storms 

And battle with thy waves forever. 
The Century Magazine, August, 1883. 



THE CHIMNEY-NOOK 13 



THE CHIMNEY -NOOK. 

O, HOW much comfort is there in the glow 

Of a rosy tire in winter, 

When each stem and stick and spHnter 
Burns all the brighter for the winds that blow ! 
Then high or low the walls, they wear a joyous look, 

Nor is anything more cheery, 

When the winter wind sounds dreary, 
Than sitting by the fire, within the chimney-nook. 

Bring Redheart Oak, the tyrant of the wood ! 

Were his dry heart even dryer, 

It would better suit our fire 
While burning in this high, ecstatic mood : 
Bring Tall-Pine, whose old head long since the crows 
forsook : 

Tall-Pine, he is in his dotage, 

But his head shall boil our pottage, 
While we sit here and laugh beside our chimney -nook. 

Old Tall-Pine, you were old when I was young. 
On your head the rains had drifted. 
Through your locks the snow^s had sifted 

A hundred years ere my first song was sung ; 

Your foot was gouty grown, your head with palsy shook, 
But your heart possessed you lightly. 
And you stood your sentry nightly, 

While I sat here and dozed beside my chimney-nook. 



14 THE CHIMNEY-NOOK 



Do you remember, Tall-Pine, years ago, 

When I rambled in my childhood 

Through yon solitary wildwood. 
And climbed your high top for the callow crow ? 
Hurrah for those old days when you and I partook 

Snow and rain and hail together. 

Little thinking this cold weather 
Would bring us face to face beside my chimney-nook. 

But now the wind is louder than before ; 

With a wild demoniac laughter 

He is running down the rafter, 
I will not talk nor dally with you more : 
For that you were my friend, some pity had me strook ; 

But the night is growing colder, 

And my spirit waxes bolder, 
To have you keep me warm beside my chimney-nook. 

Then lay his head down, crowned with all its cones ; 

It shall be a bed of roses 

Where mine ancient friend reposes ; 
Peace to his ashes, rest unto his bones ! 
Now, bravo, Tall-Pine, for your aged pate ne'er took, 

Since the spring-time of your story, 

Such a lustre, such a glory. 
As this I see it wear beside my chimney-nook. 

Beneath this mansion is a cellar old, 

" Where there bydeth," says tradition, 
" A moste wondrous wyse magician, 

Who hydeth hym in bottels grene with molde." 



THE CHIMNKY-NOOK 15 

A candle's ray at night, this fellow can not brook ; 
We will go into the cellar 
With our lights and blind the fellow, 

Then bring him to his wits beside our chimney-nook. 

Can you believe me ? Shakespeare knew him well ; 

Jonson loved him as his brother, 

So i' faith did many another 
Most potent bard who felt " hys mightye spell " : 
Ere this magician come, hang potluck on the hook ; 

We will never close our lashes 

Till old Tall-Pine burns to ashes ; 
But laugh here all night long beside our chimney-nook. 

Then let the jolly, motley world wag on 

To an age of baser metal ; 

So it upsets not our kettle. 
Give thanks for this and ask for fatter brawn ; 
We shall get through our day, somehow, by hook or 
crook ; 

Be our purse however slender, 

Only give us fire and fender, 
We shall not lack for fun beside our chimney -nook. 

O, how much comfort is there in the glow 

Of a rosy fire in winter. 

When each stem and stick and splinter 
Burns all the brighter for the winds that blow. 
Then high or low the walls, they wear a joyous look ; 

Nor is anything more cheery, 

When the winter winds sound dreary, 
Than sitting by the fire within our chimney-nook. 

Willis' Home Journal, May 5, 1860. 



16 THE LAST VISITOR 



THE LAST VISITOR. 

" Who is it knocks this stormy night ? 
Be very careful of the light ! " 
The good-man said to his wife, 

And the good-wife went to the door ; 
But never again in all his life 
Will the good-man see her more. 

For he who knocked that night was Death ; 
And the light went out with a little breath. 
And the good-man will miss his wife, 

Till he, too, goes to the door, 
When Death will carry him up to Life, 
To behold her face once more. 



THE WAR OF THE DRYADS 17 



THE WAR OF THE DEYADS. 

Shapes of earth or sprites of air, 

Should you travel thither, 
Ask the Dryads how they dare 

Quarrel thus together? 
Live and love, or coo and woo, 

Men with axes banding. 
They will have all they can do 

To keep their live-oak standing. 

Long and loud the laram swells 

Rousing up the peoples ; 
Campaneros clang their bells 

High in leafy steeples. 
Swiftly speed the eager hours, 

Fairy fellies rattle; 
Bugle-weed and trumpet-flowers 

Heralding the battle. 

Foremost march, in pale platoons, 

Barnacles and ganzas, 
Quacking through the long lagoons 

Military stanzas. 
Red-legged choughs and screeching daws 

File along the larches ; 
*' Right ! " and " Left ! " the raven caws, 

" Blast your countermarches ! " 



18 THE WAR OF THE DRYADS 

Cheek by jowl with stately rooks 

Comes the perking swallows, 
Putting on important looks, 

Strutting up the hollows ; 
Lank, long-legged fuglemen. 

Herons, cranes, and ganders. 
Stride before the buglemen, 

Cock-a-hoop commanders. 

Learned owls with wondrous eyes, 

Apes with wild grimaces, 
Shardy chafers, chattering pyes, 

Bustle in their places. 
" Forward ! " cry the captains all, 

Seeming hoarse with phthisis ; 
" Forward ! " all the captains call. 

Cocks and cockatrices. 



Fiercely grapple now the foes, 

Rain the bottle-grasses ; 
Hobble-bushes, bitter sloes. 

Block the mountain passes. 
Here and there and everywhere 

Reinforcements rally, 
Seeming sprung from earth and air, 

From mountain top and valley. 

Either gleaming bullets hum. 

Or the bees are plying ; 
Either whizzing goes the bomb, 

Or the pheasant flying. 



THE WAR OF THE DRYADS 19 

'Tis the pheasant, 'tis the bee; 

Never fiercer volley 
Rang upon the birken tree, 

Nor whirred along the holly. 

Out from furze and prickly goss. 

Fiery serpents jetting. 
Over level roods of moss 

Rabbits ricochetting ; 
Oh, the onset ! Oh, the charge ! 

How the aspens quiver ! 
Fever-bushes on the marge 

Chatter to the river. 

Overhead by rod and rood. 

More than man could number, 
Spear-grass and arrow- wood 

Turn the white air sombre. 
Gentle, gentle Dryades, 

You shall reap your sorrow ; 
More than rainy Hyades 

You shall weep to-morrow. 

Crows the cock and caws the crow, 

Croaks the boding raven ; 
Pallid as the moon-beams go, 

Three and three, the craven 
Dryads, and the sun drops low. 

Soon shall come strange faces. 
Men with axes, to and fro, — 

New peoples and new races. 
Knickerbocker Magazine. 



20 YEARNINGS 



YEARNINGS. 

How charming it would be if you and I 
Could shake off every clog which Circumstance, 
Our base old dungeon-keeper, has hung round 
The natural freedom of our God-made limbs, 
And so go wandering about the earth 
At our own pleasure, till we chose to die ! 
I half believe that somewhere in the far 
Tumultuous rush of the earth-wasting years, 
I must have led a heavenly condor's life, 
And so, full many a time, from the bright centre 
Of the great dome that roofs the sea and land, 
Have looked on this revolving pageantry : 
For not a day goes by but my blood burns 
To roam at will the vast and glorious rondure 
Of this fine world ; to saunter up and down 
From end to end of all its gorgeous valleys, 
Its rolling rivers, its majestic hills, 
Its fier}-^ deserts, its wide wastes of ocean. 
But it should be with some dear bosom friend. 
With whom I might be talking half the time ; 
Now in high strain about the unknown land, 
Now marveling to find upon all things. 
Whether in earth or air, upon the wave. 
The tree, the rock, the sand, the blade of grass, 
Still the great stamp of the Reliable ; 



YEARNINGS 21 



And both of us so much at one with Nature, 
We should admire the very heat and dust, 
The very snow and hail, the wind and rain ; 
Fearing not even the hungry howls of beasts, 
The horrible unreason of the brutes, 
Nor any enterprise of desperate men : 
Knowing full well that he who builds his life 
On pain and sorrow, builds on adamant ; 
While from foundations deepest laid in earth, 
Must spring the highest turrets into heaven. 



So then it would be nothing but a pleasure 
To toil and sweat along the dusty roads ; 
To drag our weary limbs from cliff to cliff; 
To poise ourselves upon some hair-breadth edge. 
And breathless creep above the pits of danger ; 
For what should all the perils of the journey 
Weigh in the balance with its hours of joy, 
Its blissful commerce of two loving friends. 
Its eagle views from every towering peak, 
Its glorious intercourse with the great God, 
Who made and lives in all. 



O, I believe 
Our fate will yet go wandering with us 
All over the green earth in this great wise ! 
I only pray it may be before Death, 
That kind, well-meaning chemist, shall drain off 
From our dear souls our sweet infirmities, — 
As we presume he will, since without them 
How shall we know what highest pleasure is I 



22 YEAKNINGS 

And yet why doubt that all will not be best? 
And why suppose that even Death can bring us 
Where toil and pain shall walk with us no more? 

0, certainly, if we should live so long, 

Till heaven has sprinkled our good heads with gray, 

Why not give up this ignominious life. 

Surrender these pale comforts which our age 

And time now lavish most on meanest men. 

Distribute all our goods among the poor, 

And after, seek our fortunes through the earth ? 

Our costume should be suited to the clime, 

And we would carry in our loving hearts 

The flowers of all the creeds, scarce knowing which 

Were loveliest ! And all our walk by day 

Should be in ever-changing atmospheres 

Of speech and silence ; while as night came down, 

And the good stars drew near us, and unveiled 

To tell us we might sleep since they would watch, 

Then seeking out the best place we could find. 

Our bodies unto cold insensible. 

And unto fear our souls , we should lie down. 

And the soft petals of our eyes would close, 

And all the heavens would watch us while we slept 



THE OLD YEAR 23 



THE OLD YEAR. 

Alas ! alas ! the Old Year lies dead ! 

And I am the Wind, the harper hoary, 
That chanted his requiem over his head, 

And told to the hills his sorrowful story. 
Everything comes at last to an end ; 

But to die on the moor, without pillow or litter, 
The desolate moor, with never a friend, 

Not one— my God ! it is bitter! bitter! 

Dead ! dead ! So ! so ! All over at last ! 

And he died of old age as he said he should die, 
With the poor old harper alone to cast 

One glance on the spot where his ashes lie. 
I leant me down by his shadowy form. 

And raised up his shaggy and grizzled head. 
And felt if his grand old heart was warm ; 

But alas for my friend, he was dead ! he was dead ! 

Oh, pity, pity ! I am so blind, 

So old and blind, that I scarcely know 
What house this is, nor am able to find 

A bit of a pathway here in the snow. 
So blind, that although I anxiously peer 

Full high and low through the shadows of night, 
I can only just guess from the things that I hear, 

Which of your windows is alight. 



24 THE OLD YEAR 



It is easy to see, it is easy to see 

You do not love an old man like me ; 
It matters but little whom he implores, 

On the poor old harper they shut their doors. 
But I will not call you unkind in there, 

For I know I am crabbed and old and wheezy ; 
And I carry in with me too much cold air, 

My cloak is so large and my cape is so breezy. 

I know not whether you loved the Old Year, 

But I know a poor harper who loved him more 
Than even his own sweet harp, I fear, 

Which he strikes in vain at your openless door. 
With the snow so white for his glistening shroud, 

And the night so black for his funeral pall. 
Ah me, that sorrow should not be loud ; 

Ah me, that sorrow is not for all ! 

How well I remember the good Old Year, 

When he sat in his childhood under the pines, 
This beautiful, antique harp to hear, 

As I grandly chanted mine ancient lines. 
For though I say it, this harp, I say, 

Has more weird music about the strings 
Than all the new-fangled things they play — 

In convent halls or the courts of kings. 

Your pardon, good folk, for I never came here 
To chant my own praise ; but I came to lament 

The loss of my friend whom I held so dear, 

And who carried niv heart with him where he went. 



THE OLD YEAR 25 



Alas ! alas ! my old friend lies dead ! 

And I am the Wind, the harper hoary, 
That chanted his requiem over his head, 

And told to the hills his sorrowful story ! 

Gone ! gone ! forever and ever gone ! 

Would that I, too, might come to my rest ! 
But I can not die — I must ever go on, 

Weary and wildered, a thing unblest. 
Hark ! hear you not the voice of the sea, 

Now shrill and loud, now soft and low ? 
It is calling to me ! It is calling to me ! 

It says I must go ; it says I must go. 

Tlie Independent. 



26 THE TWO ENCHANTMENTS 



THE TWO ENCHANTMENTS. 

O, HEAR from yonder height 
That glorious trumpet sounding ! 
How fierce my pulses beat ! 
But in the valley bright 
The rebecs are resounding : 
How sweet, how magic sweet ! 
Ah, whither shall I go ? 

See now upon the height 

Those mighty shapes advancing. 

So radiant, yet so far ! 

But in the valley bright 

The youths and maidens dancing. 

How beautiful they are ! 

0, whither shall I go ? 

How grand about the height 
Fame's noble army winding 
To pinnacles above ! 
But in the valley bright. 
Her hair with roses binding, 
Lingers the maid I love: 
Ah, whither shall I go ? 

The Century Magazine, January, 1883. 



27 



FANTASIE. 

I HAD come from the distant land of Blee, 
To the magical realm of Fantasia. 
Brightest of kingdoms under the sun, 
Fairer than empires of lilies and roses ; 
Wilder than half which the Dreams have done 
For the wonderful land where Sleep reposes ; 
The loveliest region of all that be 
Is the magical realm of Fantasie. 



All on the borders grow those flowers, 

Those crazy and — Oh, those crazy flowers, 

Most known to immemorial story ; 

While down from above in all their glory, 

Down from above dear Fantasie, 

With a white and silent masonry, 

Gloom and glimmer the moonshine towers 

And over those towers impalpable 

The Whimsies flit, when the moon is full. 



The slender Caprices, too, dwell here together 
In the midst of a very uncertain weather. 
Where it rains and it shines every hour of the day 
And some look so pensive and some look so gay, 
And they smile or they frown, alway. 



28 FANTASIE 



Fickle as wind they be, — 

But over them with a wand rules he, 

The jolly Monarch of Fantasie. 



Once, I remember, in midsummer heats, 

I saw the half-naked, dainty Conceits, 

Trooping along like troops of Kisses, 

Over and over those wildernesses 

Of clambering and depending sweets, 

Where the Ivy and Vine with each other vie 

To be the coquette of the forestry ; 

And some on the cups of the flowers alit, — 

But they perked at the odors and spilled their wine 

And some on the banks of a stream did sit 

Complaining of all which they saw in it ; 

While some fashioned lutes of the vine. 

And tunefully made repine. 

Apart from the rest a heedless throng 

Wandered there, empty of even a song, 

Round an amphora's wealth of golden creams. 

Like travelers in a land of dreams ; 

And some low sighed while they hardly ate 

Tidbits of the rarest cate ; 

Others there were, but they stayed in the air, 

Not deigning to alight down there ; 

An azure areole starred their bellies, 

For they fed on the hues of jellies. 

Fickle as wind they be, — 

Yet over them with a wand rules he. 

The jolly Monarch of Fantasie. 



FANTASIE 29 

Nothing comes here but it comes by surprise 

To quicken your ears, or to greaten your eyes ; 

And nothing you hear and naught you see 

But is wrought by an alchemy. 

Here an extravagant beam of the sun 

Will turn the leaves into birds, every one ; 

And O, such a forest of chirping and chirring, 

Peeping and cheeping, who ever heard ! 

When suddenly, some little breeze up-stirring, 

Lo and behold, each beautiful bird 

Is a musical bell : and the silvery tinkling 

Startles the ouphe and the elfin fay, 

Till they scamper, like mad, down the intervale, 

sprinkling 
Old thefts of roses all over the way ; 
Then the mermen come out from their deep mossy 

wells, 
Bespangled with dews and dripping with foam, 
And lock up the music in rosy-lipped shells, 
And hie them away to their sea-forest home. 

Such are the sounds that you oftenest hear 
When the days are calm and the nights are clear ; 
And such are the sights that you oftenest see 
In the magical realm of Fantasie ; 
And if ever a country prosper me, 
May Fantasie that dear country be. 

Kiiickerborker Magizine. 



30 THE MASQUE IN FANTASIE 



THE MASQUE IN FANTASIE. 

Once I went curtsying through and through 

The magical realm of Fantasie, 

Steeped in the self-same reverie 

As the poets I met and curtsied to ; 

For ever they walked there dreamily, 

Uplifting their eyes to those mystical skies, 

While they lowly whispered to one another 

How the king of the realm would shortly arise 

To make some or other preposterous pother, 

But they knew not as yet what the pother would be, 

In the magical realm of Fantasie. 



Had it not been to see those beautiful bards, 

I should never have started down Fantasie- wards ; 

For a marvelous glamour in the air 

Parodies things from what they were; 

And a guilty man who could make his boast 

That he saw those pallid, unearthly faces. 

Unnatural eyes and horrid grimaces, 

And still kept his right mind uppermost, 

That man would be as brave as a lion, 

With nerves of steel and a heart of iron. 

Had it not been to see those beautiful bards, 

I should never have started down Fantasie- wards. 



THE MASQUE IN FANTASIK 31 

Have you ever awaked from silent sleep 

To a sounding serenade under the moon, 

When viol and flute perfect harmony keep, 

And the gentle guitars eke out the tune ? 

Of the many sweet things I have heard elsewhere, 

There is nothing other can hold compare 

With the wild, the ethereal burst, which pealed 

All of a sudden on Fantasie : 

So startling those beautiful bards and me 

With its wondrous melody that we reeled, — 

Reeled to and fro, as much I dare say. 

As those fountains do that are drunk all day, 

While showered around us the musical spray. 



But now we were hurling our loud acclaim 

High up, where onward and onward came, 

Borne on the swift white wings of a million 

Carrier-breezes, the Royal Pavilion. 

All round on its sides were elfin bowers, 

And grottoes, and sweet sequestered places, 

All fairly roofed with flaunting flowers. 

And trailers of ivy pleached into laces : 

There was the shining Naiad's home, 

Fleckered with flakes of the fountain-foam ; 

The Dryad's green tree and the Sylph's couch of air, 

And the Oread's mountain, all were there. 

You saw no goer, you saw no comer. 

Only the lingering spell of dreams ; 

Over all hung the spell of soothy summer. 

And amorous silence and shady gleams. 



32 THE MASQUE IN FANTASIE 

The monarch sat on his throne, 

Stern as the marble and cold as the stone ; 

Full strange then it seemed when he lifted his wand, 

And sweetly and merrily gave his command, — 

" To the masque ! to the masque ! " 

Then fleetly out, 
Bolted a merry, mad, rollicking rout 
Of all the pet sprites which Fancy fair 
Hath begot on the earth, in the sea or the air : 
Faun follows Fairy and Fairy Faun, 
And Sylphid the heels of the Satyr on ; 
The Men of the Seas and the Maids of the Seas 
Run chasing the Dryads out of their trees. 
And they skip and they gambol and airily fly, 
And frisk and frolic so high. 

They seem as if poised 'twixt the earth and the sky : 
And the Elves and the Naiads trip it along. 
Footing the turf and singing a song ; 
Some lead a morris across the pavilion, 
Some weave the maze of the gentle cotillion. 
Some tread a round and some tread a measure, 
And marry their hands for the pleasure ; 
The glorious sunbeams, the while, are netting 
Checkers of silver and gold and green. 
The tall spumy fountains are laughingly jetting, 
The dancers are jocundly dancing between ; 
And when the sport thickened, I would you had seen 
Their fair rosy cheeks and their glistening eyes. 
Taper arms and streamers of sea-green hair, 
And the opaline jetteaus that mocked the skies, 
And the arches of Iris that drove through the air. 



THE MASQUE IN FANTASIE 33 

The iBOiiarch sat on his throne, 

Calm as the marble and still as the stone ; 

Full strange then it seemed when he lifted his wand, 

And loudly and sternly gave out his command, — 

" Unmasqe ! unmasque ! " 

Down rustled the night. 
And closed like a pall on the dying light ; 
Yet no sooner had darkness out-blotted the day, 
Than a million blue lights took the darkness away ; 
And we saw by the blaze that Satyr and Faun 
And Merman and Mermaid all were gone : 
But heavenly Jesu ! what new shapes are there, 
Where the blue-flaming sockets flash and flare? 
Snakj^-haired Furies, and Witches on brooms. 
Warlocks indued from the Devil's own looms. 
And all the curst litter of churchyards and tombs, — 
Bogles and Lemures, Spectres and Ghouls, 
That vex men's bodies and haunt men's souls : — 
And a guilty man who could make his boast 
That he saw those pallid, unearthly faces, 
Unnatural eyes and horrid grimaces, 
And still kept his right mind uppermost, — 
That man would be as brave as a lion. 
With nerves of steel and a heart of iron. 
Had it not been to see those beautiful bards, 
I should never have journeyed down Fantasie- wards. 
Knickerbocker Magazine. 1860. 



34 THE GRAND ORCHESTRA 



THE GRAND ORCHESTRA. 

O, LISTEN to that solemn symphony ! 

These are the notes which to the heart interpret 

The majesty of sorrow ; and it is 

By these the heavy progress of the dead, 

The dead who died immortal, should be followed. 

And this should be upon an afternoon 
In rich October ; and the grand cortege 
Move down a mellow vista, where there hung 
Floating aloft, as if upon the air. 
And far as eye could see, most gorgeous boughs 
Of leaves : and leaves should lie upon the ground 
Quite thickly ; and it would be strange, indeed. 
If here and there, all trembling to the strains 
Of this great score, still others did not fall, 
Slow sailing their first journey to the earth ; 
And strange if now and then might not be seen 
Some happy squirrel or wee thoughtless bird, 
Scarce knowing any sorrow, even in death. 
For it should be the month of yellow leaves, 
And faint voluptuous odors in the grass 
And in the golden haze ; the only time 
When to be happy is but to be sad. 
And to be sad is to be like the leaves 
When all the woods wear melancholy plumes. 



THE GRAND ORCHESTRA 35 

Too early or too late the poet dies 

Who dies not in the sea'son of ripe leaves. 

O, list the yearning of these cadences, 

For they but breathe again what I now said ! 

I wonder if beyond the ancient stars, 

Beyond this immaterial dome, this blue 

Eternity of silence overarched, 

Beneath the mighty rushing of the waves, 

A hundred foamy leagues from any man, 

Within those palaces where all for beauty 

Mermaidens live, and mermen die for love, 

Such melody is not heard ! 

Soft! Soft! Oh, hark! 
Do you not hear them now ? Do you not hear 
The music of those deep sea-corridors, 
Whose crystal pillars tremble with all-hail 
To the majestic entrance of the gray, 
Surf-bearded Ocean ? These must be, indeed, 
Almost as beautiful as were the strains 
Which followed in the dim background of Time, 
Upon the windy track of ^Eolus, 
When mermaids have besought the mariner. 
And those to hear again, who would not go 
Seafaring now ? Who would not brave black night, 
The creeping, treacherous fog, the roaring breakers, 
The crazed winds, the insatiable fire, 
The unlashed waves that spring upon the deckg 
As swift as tigers, and remorselessly 
Sinner and saint alike sweep — God knows where ? 
Only to hear such ravishing notes once more, 
How gladly would we sail the infested seas, 
Above the dull-eyed monsters ! O, how quickly 



36 THE GRAND ORCHESTRA 

Welcome the rushing and tumultuous bergs, 
The thundering, league-long battlements of ice, 
Which were the outposts of the Arctic night. 

But listen, now ! Is it not passing strange 

These seeming ordinary whiskered men. 

Who look no more than common entities, 

Are really purveyors to the stars. 

And lug us by the ears up into Heaven ? 

How worse than useless, now, are our good eyes ! 

I would not open them if I might see 

The unimagined form of Beauty rise. 

How softly unto dulcet sounds like these. 

The current of our lives should glide away 

Into an old age of sweet memories. 

Now is the time to die and feel no pang. 

The dreadful potion would be so disguised 

In the bright sparkle of sweet music's wine. 

Who knows not that beyond the amber air 
The voice of music never will be hushed, 
And silence would be sorrow ? O, believe 
When we have laid this mortal burden down, 
Which gives us gravity, and the green earth 
Spins off beneath us, we shall rise at once 
Where spring immortal thunders, and where roll 
Great globes of most celestial harmonies. 

The Independent 



SIGHS IN THE SOUTH 



37 



SIGHS IN THE SOUTH. 

0, FAR away the winds delay, 
On purple hills the soft airs play 
Which you and I would breathe to-day ; 
And the waters we would quaff 
Have a wild and mountain laugh ; 
Through the meadows, through the fallows, 
Past the willows, past the sallows, 
Breaks the brook to shoals and shallows, 
In New England far away, 
Where my heart has gone to-day. 

The sun is rolled on wheels of gold 
By hazy summits gray and old. 
Where all about from fold to fold, 

Like barges of an Eastern prince. 

The clouds ride in magnificence ; 
Yet not so much of regal splendor 
Can the East its princes render. 
As the heaven and earth engender 

In New England far away. 

At sunset every autumn day. 

O'er painted roods of autumn woods 
The twilight, soft as amber, broods 
I' the dreamiest of its dreamy moods. 
The mill-wheels in the distance sound. 
The mill-wheels going round and round ; 



38 SIGHS IN THE SOUTH 

Tiny sheep-bells tinkle, tinkle ; 
Yellow leaves and red leaves sprinkle, 
Through the leaves the waters twinkle, 

In New England far away, 

Where my fancy flies to-day. 

From hill to hill, how clear and shrill 
The cow-boy's calls reecho still : 
How quickly now the air doth fill 

With clamor of the home-bound herds, 

The cow-bell's tones, the cow-boy's words. 
Jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle. 
In the copse and in the dingle ; 
Strange how many sounds commingle 

In New England far away, 

At sunset on an autumn day. 

Toward stream and lake, through bush and brake, 
The thirsty kine their courses take ; 
Nor do they less a clamor make 

To see in every stream their looks. 

And hear the songs o' the singing brooks. 
Ah, how pleasant sounds the lowing 
Of the cattle homeward going. 
And the noise of waters flowing 

In New England far away, 

At sunset on an autumn day. 

All overhead the leaves are dead — 
The brown, the russet leaves and red ; 
But how more fully, richly fed 
The eye is with their beauty now 
Than when they greened the summer bough 



SIGHS IN THE SOUTH 39 

Air-hung gardens, radiant, splendid, 
O'er some fairy's home suspended, 
Show not hues more sweetly blended : 

Nowhere woodlands half so gay 

As these are on an autumn day. 

The lights that lie athwart the sky. 
White, golden, crimson, far and nigh. 
Gleam through the windowed forestry ; 

Less rich and soft the light that falls 

From stained panes on frescoed walls. 
Standing 'neath each leafy column. 
Hear we not a grand and solemn 
Anthem of majestic volume. 

Chanted by that blind and gray 

Old organist, the Wind, alway ? 

Each woodland scene, ah, how serene ! 

The boughs upon the trees, I ween, 

Like arches upon pillars lean. 
How wondrous! y these pendent piles 
Look down upon the forest-aisles ! 

Never architect nor moulder 

Hath conceived or planned a bolder. 

Fairer temple, nor an older ; 
And my heart has gone away 
To worship in those woods to-day. 
New York Weekly Tribune, October 13, 1862. 



40 THOREAU 



THOREAU. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



If I could find that little poem 
AVith the daintiest sort of proem, 
Which the poet squirrel made 
On a leaf that would not fade, 
And slyly hid one darksome night 
By the wicked glow-worm's light ! — 
It was all about Thoreau ; 
How the squirrels loved him so, 
Since whenever he went walking, 
He would stop to hear their talking, 
Often smiling when they chattered, 
Or their brown nuts downward pattered. 

Nay, could I but find that bird 
Who told me once that she had heard 
Robins, wrens, and others tell. 
How he knew their language well, 
And how he turned, a thousand times. 
Birdie into English rhymes! 



THOREAU 41 



In his native Walden wood 
He was our good Robin Hood ; 
Had he not full many an arrow 
Piercing to the very marrow, — 
Satire, wit, philosophy, 
And all the sciences that be ? 
He was skilled in every herb 
Wherewith to temper well the barb ; 
And not a bird upon the heather 
But had gladly lent his feather. 
Then woe the '' proude sheryfe,^' alas. 
If he in his way chanced to pass ; 
And woe, alas, the " proude potter,'^ 
Should he drive near Walden water. 



In New England, scarce a spot 
Where his merry men were not ; 
They loved no better sound to hear, 
Than when his bugle-horn rang clear 
On " dale and downe," or " hill^s .lee,' 
"All under the gude greenwood tree." 
I heard it once on Marlborough road, 
Where oft at morning-tide he wode. 



Sometimes I seem to see him stand 
Between the rainbow and the land. 
Surveying with his tranquil eye 
The varied scenes which pass him by ; 
Anon, at autumn's highest noon, 
Careering with the harvest-moon ; 



42 THOREAU 

And when the Old Year, sick to death, 

Scantly draws his frosty breath, 

I see him wasted thin as air, 

Keeping his lone vigil there ; 

But O, when early grass doth spring, 

And fresh buds burst and green woods ring, 

Grant me his eyes that I may see 

All the beauty that shall be. 

He could give the blessed reasons 

Why the flowers came in their seasons ; 

Nay, he kenned the pedigree 

O' the red rose and the white lily. 

" Run," he said, " and you shall find 

Just the stalk to suit your mind ! 

Yet another day and half 

Go you where the brooklets laugh, 

And seek the other in high grass, — 

But do not crush it as you pass ! 

Ah, but stop, if you should see, 

Under some old rock or tree, 

A purple, wee thing, most like this 

I' the book here — bring it — do not miss, 

For this same flower, before to-morrow, 

You can neither beg nor borrow." 

Have I not beheld where stood 
Between the water and the wood, 
That famous cot, which he, the cotter. 
Reared, one day, near Walden water ? 
Have I not beheld that boat 
Which bore the noble seer afloat ? 



THORKAU 43 

A common bark before he entered, 
An argosy when him it ventured ? 
And now if out of Death's grim portal 
Part of us doth step immortal, 
Then why may not our blessed cotter 
Still revisit Walden water, 
And still conduct that wondrous boat 
Which bore the gentle seer afloat ? 



44 THE INVISIBLE PIPER 



THE INVISIBLE PIPER. 

Hark ! the invisible piper plays ! 

You will scarcely go home, I think, to-night, 
For your horse will cast his shoes in the ways, 

And you will follow a fire-fly light. 
O, he is the piper that never was seen , 
Any two days or nights between ; 
But plenty there be who declare he looks 
Like the figure of Punch in the picture-books, 
Or a wide-mouthed, red-nosed, rollicking clown, 
With his face all laughter from chin to crown. 

Puffing his cheeks and piping like mad, 

He will march through autumn, the motley fellow. 
And the leaves can not see him, though ever so glad. 

But they all will follow him, red and yellow. 
Not a farmer but misses his oaten straws 

And calls on the piper, aloud, to stay; 
But he scarcely will get the words out of his jaws 

Ere the piper is up and off" and away. 

"When the winter is come, and the nights grow late, 
And the old crone leans at the kitchen grate, 
In solemn wise, and mumbles her stories 
Till the urchins make big eyes ; then glories 



THE INVISIBLE PIPER 45 

The piper to blow and to blow, and his tone 
Those urchins think is the desolate moan 
Of the wounded knight in the legend old, 
Which the skinny old crone has just now told ; 
And but half they believed her marvelous tale 
Till the piper sounded his notes of bale ; 
And it is very queer how the piper and she 
Will cheat little children two times out of three. 

He comes up at night from the dreary wold 
And plays round the chimneys and gables old, 
And flits in and out through the haunted hall 
Till the family portraits dance on the wall. 
But most he loves in midsummer eves 
To answer her plaint when Echo grieves ; 
Or chance on lovers who kiss and play 
In the shade of an arbor hid away. 

No better piper e'er piped on a straw 

To the king of the forest, the bold outlaw ; 

And no better piper e'er piped on a reed 

To the elves and the fairies that skip o'er the mead ; 

And no better piper e'er piped on a quill 

To the shepherds that dance 'neath the loud-bleating hill. 

O, he is the piper for all and for all ; 

For he pipes to Maggie and he pipes to Mall, 

He pipes for the cottage and he pipes for the hall ; 

He pipes for merry and he pipes for sad, 

He pipes for sorry and he pipes for glad. 

And be you a mistress, or be you a lover, 

Sour be the sorrel, or sweet be the clover, 

There is no better music the wide world over. 



46 SHAKESPEARE 



SHAKESPEARE. 

I WISH that I could have my wish to-night ; 
For all the fairies should assist my flight 

Back into the abyss of years ; 
Till I could see the streaming light, 

And hear the music of the spheres 
That sang together at the joyous birth 

Of that immortal mind, 

The noblest of his kind — 
The only Shakespeare that has graced our earth. 

0, that I might behold 
Those gentle sprites, by others all unseen, 

Queen Mab and Puck the bold. 

With curtseys manifold 
Glide round his cradle every morn and e'en ; 

That I might see the nimble shapes that ran 

And frisked and frolicked by his side, 
When school hours ended or began. 

At morn or eventide ; 
That I might see the very shoes he wore 

Upon the dusty street, 
His little gown and pinafore, 

His satchel and his schoolboy rig complete ! 



SHAKESPEARE 47 

If I could have the wish I rhyme, 
Then should this night, and all it doth contain, 

Be set far back upon the rim of Time, 
And I would wildered be upon a stormy plain : 
The wanton waves of winter wind and storm 

Should beat upon my ruddy face. 
And on my streaming hair ; 
And hags and witches multiform, 

And beldames past all saintly grace. 
Should hover round me in the sleety air. 

Then hungry, cold, and frightened by these imps of sin, 

And breathless all with buffeting the storm, 
Betimes I would arrive at some old English inn, 

Wainscoted, high, and warm. 
The fire should blaze in antique chimney-place ; 
And on the high-backed settles, here and there. 
The village gossip and the merry laugh 
Should follow brimming cups of half-an'-half ; 
Before the fire, in hospitable chair, 

The landlord fat should bask his shining face, 
And slowly twirl his pewter can ; 

And there in his consummate grace, 
The perfect lord of wit, 
The immortal man. 
The only Shakespeare of this earth should sit. 

There, too, that Spanish galleon of a hulk, 

Ben Jonson, lying at full length. 
Should so dispose his goodly bulk 
That he might lie at ease upon his back, 

To test the tone and strength 
Of Boniface's sherris-sack. 



48 SHAKESPEARE 

And there should be some compeers of these two. 

Rare wits and poets of the land, 
Whom all good England knew, 
And who are now her dear forget-me-nots ; 

And they should lounge on Shakespeare's either hand, 
And sip their punch from queer old cans and pots. 

O, then, such drollery should begin, 

Such wit flash out, such humor run 
Around the fire in this old English inn, 

The veriest clod would be convulsed with fun ; 
And Boniface's merry sides would ache. 
And his round belly like a pudding shake. 

Never since the world began 

Has been such repartee ; 
And never till the next begins. 
Will greater things be said by man. 

Than this same company 
Were wont to say so oft in those old English inns. 

Dear artist if you paint this picture mine, 

Do not forget the storm that roars 

Above the merry din and laughter within doors ; 
But let some stroke divine 
Make all within appear more rich and warm, 
By contrast with the outer storm. 

New York Tribune. 



AT THE GRAVE 



AT THE GRAVE. 

IN MEMORY OF A. M. 

It is a world of seeming : 

The changeless moon seems changing ever, 

The sun sets daily, but sets never ; 

So near the stars and yet so far ; 

So small they seem, so large they are ! 

It is a world of seeming. 

And so it seems that she is dead ; 
Yet so seems only ; for, instead, 
Her life is just begun ; and this — 
Is but an empty chrysalis ; 
While she, unseen to mortal eyes, 
Now wins her way in brighter skies — 
Beyond this world of seeming. 
The Century Magazine, February, 1887. 



50 PRO MORTUIS 



PRO MORTUIS 

For the dead and for the dying ; 

For the dead that once were hving, 
And the hving that are dying, 

Pray I to the All-forgiving. 

For the dead who yester journeyed ; 

For the living who, to-morrow, 
Through the Valley of the Shadow, 

Must all bear the world's great sorrow ; 

For the immortal who in silence 
Have already crossed the portal ; 

For the mortal who in sadness 
Soon shall follow the immortal ; 

Keep thine arms around all, O Father ! — 
Round lamenting and lamented ; 

Round the living and repenting, 
Round the dead who have repented. 

Keep thine arms round all, Father ! 

That are left or that are taken ; 
For they all are needy, whether 

The forsaking or forsaken. 

New York Post, July 15, 1862. 



THE SERENE MESSAGE 51 



THE SERENE MESSAGE. 

So THOU hast lived with a subhme intent, — 
Hast walked the earth with heaven-lifted eyes,— 
And done no wrong, thy guardians well may be 
The seas, the oceans in their majesty. 
And the calm peaks that tower along the skies. 

If to thine ear the patter of young feet 
Has been like music, and thy heart is fain 
To spare the roses and each living thing, 
Then surely some time shall a sweet bird sing 
Into thy grave, thou hast not lived in vain. 

If thou hast said one only word to cheer 

The spirits of thy fellows on the earth. 

And done no wrong, then mayst thou find thy home 

Content beneath the unutterable dome, 

And thank the stars for thy majestic birth. 

So rans the message that I oftenest hear 
In this dear spot, where I could wish to he 
If I were dead, still listening to the breeze 
Under the pines, the centenarian trees 
That softly whisper of the days gone by. 

The Century Magazine. 



52 COMRADES 



COMRADES. 

One steed I have of common clay, 

And one no less than regal ; 
By day I jog on old Saddlebags, 

By night I fly upon Eagle : 
To store, to market, to field, to mill, 

One plods with patient patter, 
Nor hears along the far-oflf heights 

The hoofs of his comrade clatter. 

To field, to market, to mill he goes. 

Nor sees his comrade gleaming 
Where he flies along the purple hills. 

Nor the flame from his bridle steaming ; 
Sees not his track, nor the sparks of fire 

So terribly flashing from it, 
As they flashed from the track of Alborak 

When he bravely carried Mahomet. 

One steed, in a few short years, will rest 

Under the grasses yonder ; 
The other will come there centuries hence 

To linger and dream and ponder : 
And yet both steeds are mine to-day, 

The immortal and the mortal ; 
One beats alone the clods of earth, 

One stamps at heaven's portal. 
The Century Magazine, December, 1887. 



MAY FLOWERS 53 



MAY FLOWERS. 

Now falls the happy time of year 

That brings to man and maid good cheer, 

When May comes down in April showers 

And sprinkles all the earth with flowers. 

Full fair to see these early dawns 

The gold mist rising from the lawns ; 

Sweet to see the dew-star shine 

On cowslip or on columbine ; 

To feel the freshness of the air 

Upon our cheeks and in our hair. 

The long-imprisoned brooks leap out 

With merry bound and rustic shout, 

Eager on the grassy plain 

To meet and talk and laugh again. 

The wild-wood noisy is with glee ; 

There sings a bird on every tree ; 

They are holding social chat ; — 

Can you not imagine that? — 

Sweetly calling to each other 

" Father," "Mother," " Sister," " Brother." 

Lo, wherever we may tread 

A magic carpet is outspread : 

What flower is that for which you look 

Along the margin of the brook ? 



54 MAY FLOWERS 



The showers may not have brought it yet, 

It is the modest violet. 

Here is arbute and its kin ; 

Here the tall, slim Benjamin ; 

What is this beside the tree? 

It is wood-anemone. 



The Sun along the Kiver walks ; 
The River, to himself he talks ; 
Last night he saw the naked moon 
Flying onward into June. 
Apple-blossoms on the hills. 
Laurel-blooms beside the rills, 
Be not painted half so fair 
As our bright May mornings are. 

Barefoot, hatless in the sun, 
See the truant school-boys run ; 
Fun and Frolic tread them nigh. 
And mischief with her beaming eye : 
One thing only do they fear — 
The man with quill behind his ear. 

By the laughter and the shout 
There must be May-parties out : 
Here is one ; I see their Queen 
Is crowned with simple evergreen ; 
Just one year ago, to-day, 
Edith wore this crown of May; 
Just one year to-day has past 
Since we saw our Edith last : 



MAY FLOWERS 55 

Know you what the poets tell 
Of the crowns of asphodel ? 
Thus we may be right in saying 
" Edith has but gone a-Maying." 

The forest trees outstretch their arms 

And catch the birds upon their palms ; 

The poet more devoutly now 

Walks beneath each hanging bough : 

What a blessed office his ! 

He, the Priest of Nature is ; 

He in poesy distils 

All the murmurings of rills ; 

He translates the songs of birds 

And to their music sets his words. 

The lover more than ever loves, 
He sighs in fields, he weeps in groves : 
On every tree he carves her name, 
And tires the wind's ear with the same : 
His mistress more than ever dreams, 
Embracing what his image seems. 
But the cuckoo calls the rain ; 
You and I must home again : 
Meantime I shall not cease praying 
We may go once more a-Maying. 
New York Weekly Tribune, April 26, 1863. 



56 THE FAIRY BOAT 



THE FAIRY BOAT. 

Tell me what frail bark or dory- 
Is it, that with nightly glory 
Saileth since all time and story 

Through the heavens wide and airy ? 
Answer me, — oh, answer soon ! 

Is it sprite or is it fairy ? 
Nay, in sooth it is the moon ! 

No, — it is some heaven-haunting 
Fairy, in her white canoe : 

Yes, it is some wild, enchanting 
Fairy faring with her crew. 

In her bark along the blue. 

Fairy, fairy, in that airy 
Fragile bark, oh, let me carry 
Forty friends, nor ever tarry 

Till we reach the seas that never 
Break in waves nor dash in foam, — 

Till we reach the seas that ever 
Round the purple islets roam ! 

Then, oh ! then, with easier motion, 
Where nor breeze nor whisper stirs. 

Let me float upon that ocean, 
With ray dainty, dainty sirs. 
With all my gentle passengers. 



THE FAIRY BOAT 57 

On that mere, gossamery, 
I will steer, cheery, cheery. 
Steer thy bark, nor ever weary 

Though all pain or pallor seizes 
Cheek or brow or head of mine ; 

Piloting through happy breezes, 
I will rest that head on thine. 

We will share all things together 
With the friends that I shall bring ; 

All delights of starry weather ; 
And the crazy world shall ring 
To the melody we sing. 



58 A MIDNIGHT CHORUS 



A MIDNIGHT CHORUS. 



St. Cecilia, how divine that choral ! 

0, it must be some burst from Heaven's voices, 

From voices dwelhng far beyond this poor 

And misty region of the day and night ! 

And yet I must believe it is not so. 

Since these are also they who sang before ; 

Only their chanting then was in the glare 

And bustle of the day, and now 't is night ; 

Still night, that shows fair Music's form complete 

As it betrays to light the hidden stars ; 

The only time when Music is herself; — 

Music, the lovely maid that loves the moon, 

And the blest quiet of the brooding night ; — 

The sweetest wonder of the universe. 



How all this common air which the low beasts 
And meanest of mankind thus breathe, can speak 
The language of the soul so angel-tongued. 
To stir the bold assertion that even we, 
The pale inheritors of narrow graves, 
Can stand in spite of epitaphs, and are 
No less than the most godlike of the gods, 
Makes reverie indeed. 



A MIDNIGHT CHORUS 59 

But this which now 
We hear, is revelation ! it is more 
Than carohng and greater than mere song : 
It is the rage and eloquence of passion, — 
Now on the heights of exultation keyed, 
Now on the deep, dark levels of despair ! 
Upon this strain a mighty host once hurled 
A host far mightier down the steeps of battle. 
Beneath a fiery sunset, on the marge 
Of the resounding sea. 



Long, long ago 
The shades of those lost warriors wandered down 
Into the underworld, chased everywhere 
By that fierce-flying psean : long ago 
Came clattering home to their sweethearts and wives 
Those noble singers who so sang themselves 
Into the bright and blinding gaze of Fame. 
And I now hear the very lay they sang 
When their sweethearts and wives rode out to meet 

them, 
So rapturous and yet with love so tender : — 
Do you not hear the chanson of the knights 
Returning from that happy joust of battle ? 
This glorious symphony, if it could go 
Where those lost warriors are, in that sad place. 
Lamenting home and fate, would wreak delight 
Upon the face of pain. The outbursting notes 
Like spirits of the air, sweep the wide plains 
And dash with glee against the haughty breasts 
Of the impassive hills. 



60 A MIDNIGHT CHORUS 



But hear them now ! 
It is the mighty choral and the chant 
Of a great nation, as if all the world 
Stood on the table-land of Time, and sang 
Immortal anthem : and I am so nerved 
With this high ecstasy, that were it now 
Confronted by a million chattering ghosts 
Of those lost warriors, with a single sword 
To dash through all and win great heights beyond,— 
Armed with such music, I should not despair. 
Nay, nay : the choristers have changed their notes : 
It is no more the tune of exultation, — 
It is a wailing from the underground, 
So long and loud and dolorous, it seems 
The hopeless miserere of the dead : 
It is the lamentation of those lost 
And hapless warriors, who let fall their sorrow^ 
Forever without cease. 

O, hear you not 
Crying from out the centre, a great voice 
Of agony, the voice of many ages ? 



THE SONG OF THE SAVOYARDS 61 



THE SONG OF THE SAVOYARDS. 



Far poured past Broadway's lamps alight, 
The tumult of her motley throng, 

When high and clear upon the night 
Rose an inspiring song ; 

And rang above the city's din 

To sound of harp and violin ; 
A simple but a manly strain, 
And ending with the brave refrain — 

Courage ! courage, mon camarade ! 



And now where rose that song of cheer. 
Both old and young stood still for joy ; 

Or from the windows hung to hear 
The children of Savoy : 

And many an eye with rapture glowed, 

And saddest hearts forgot their load, 
And feeble souls grew strong again, 
So stirring was the brave refrain — 

Courage ! courage, mon camarade ! 



62 THE SONG OF THE SAVOYARDS 



Alone, with only silence there, 
Awaiting his life's welcome close, 

A sick man lay, when on the air 
That clarion arose ; 

So sweet the thrilling cadence rang, 

It seemed to him an angel sang. 
And sang to him ; and he would fain 
Have died upon that heavenly strain 

Courage ! courage, mon camarade ! 



A sorrow-stricken man and wife, 
With nothing left them but to pray, 

Heard streaming over their sad life 
That grand, heroic lay : 

And through the mist of happy tears 

They saw the promise-laden years ; 
And in their joy they sang again. 
And caroled high the fond refrain — 

Courage ! courage, mon camarade ! 



Two artists, in the cloud of gloom 

Which hung upon their hopes deferred, 

Resounding through their garret-room 
That noble chanson heard ; 

And as the night before the day 

Their weak misgivings fled away ; 
And with the burden of the strain 
They made their studio ring again — 

Courage ! courage, mon camarade ! 



THE SONG OF THE SAVOYARDS 63 

Two poets, who in patience wrought 

The glory of an aftertime, — 
Lords of an age which knew them not, 

Heard rise that lofty rhyme ; 
And on their hearts it fell, as falls 
The sunshine upon prison-walls ; 

And one caught up the magic strain 

And to the other sang again — 
Courage ! courage, mon camarade ! 

And unto one who, tired of breath, 

And day and night and name and fame, 
Held to his lips a glass of death, 

That song a savior came ; 
Beseeching him from his despair, 
As with the passion of a prayer ; 

And kindling in his heart and brain 

The valor of its blest refrain — 
Courage ! courage, mon camarade ! 

O thou, with earthly ills beset, 
Call to thy lips those words of joy, 

And never in thy life forget 
The brave song of Savoy ! 

For those dear words may have the power 

To cheer thee in thy darkest hour ; 
The memory of that loved refrain 
Bring gladness to thy heart again ! — 

Courage ! courage, mon camarade ! 
Scribner's Magazine, June, 1875. 



64 WEBSTER 



WEBSTER. 



Inscribed to Benjamin Pierce Cheney, of Boston, who, in the 
spirit of tlie ancient Greeks, erected a statue at Concord, N. H., 
on the 17th of June, 1886, to the memory of Webster. 



I. 



He trod no deck ; he rode no horse ; he bore 

No truncheon and no sword. He only sate 

A simple Senator within the gate ; 

But when he spoke, men listened : from every door 

Surged round him like a sea without a shore — 

This man of the majestic mien, who late 

On his own shoulders had borne up the State ; 

Hearts beat ; eyes glistened. He would speak once 

more. 
The thunders gathered on his awful brow ; 
He spoke. We know the story. He who shone 
On all the summits of occasion, now 
Shone upon this ; and made the day his own: 
He did but speak within the Senate Hall 
Some pregnant hours, yet in that time saved all. 



65 



II. 
He died. His living eyes were never bent 
Upon the sun that ht his country's woes ; 
But in a decade that red sun arose — 
And on his tomb its warning rays were sent : 
And now, throughout the war, from tent to tent, 
Great Webster walked in scorn of death's repose, 
And sat by every camp-fire. Unto those 
He showed what Chippewa, Buena Vista meant, 
Fort Erie, Palo Alto, Lundy's Lane ; 
To these discoursed of Concord, Plymouth-shore 
And Bunker Hill ; and heard their loud huzza. 
When — where he pointed — rose to sight again, 
Fold over fold unfurling, star by star, 
The old flag sweeping through the heavens once more. 

III. 
New Hampshire bore him ; nurtured him ; a stern, 
Rough nurse, but still, still at his mother's hearth : 
Ah, Heaven, that he should sleep in other earth. 
Even though in Massachusetts ! even though his urn 
Stands by the sea, to make the white ships turn 
Instinctively ! For what is all this worth. 
When I can hear her voice who gave him birth — 
And know how strong her tender heart doth yearn — 
Calling his mighty ashes ? Attica 
No less had sighed for her Demosthenes : 
So in her granite hills New Hampshire stands — 
More proud, yet more forlorn than even Greece, 
Remembering such a son ; and looking far 
Where shines a tomb beside the ocean sands. 
New York Observer, June 17, 1886. 



66 OLD FRIENDS 



OLD FRIENDS. 

I. 

Have j'ou ever trod the height 
Whence the lamps of faith and reason 

Flash the vista into sight 
Of that glorious future season 

Prophesied through many ages 

By the best of bards and sages ? 



II. 

Have you from that shining height 
Heard the beautiful descanting 

Of the bards whose names I write, 
That have never ceased their chanting 

Though the winter's ice hath bound them, 

And the fields are frozen round them ? 

III. 

Still they sing ; for winter's cold 
Is but round them and not of them ; 

They are neither one grown old 
In despite the snows above them ; 

Nay, if years can tell the story 

Then the gods themselves w^ere hoary. 



OLD FRIENDS 67 

IV. 

Still they sing, so sweet, so sweet, 

Songs of beauty past denying, 
And the years may beat and beat 

Thick as flakes of winter flying, — 
Still we shall expect to hear them 
And sometime to journey near them. 

V. 

Earth is but a stopping place ; — 
We are surely what our souls are. 

Ready for a mighty race 
Without knowing what our goals are, 

Though by many signs divining 

Welcome in yon heaven shining. 

VI. 

If the wing proclaims the air 
And the air the wing proclaimeth, 

It is no mere dreamland there 
Which the soul its kingdom nameth ; 

But a glorious, high dominion 

Worthy an immortal pinion. 

VII. 
So, perchance, Orion-wards 

We may sometime sail together 
With our very noble bards 

Through the bright Empyrean weather ; 
Or at little distance follow 
As the Muses did Apollo. 



68 OLD FRIENDS 

VIII. 

Bard of Essex, though thy song 
May be richer then and fuller, 

As we sail the stars along, 
We shall not forget " Maud Muller " : — 

For thy fame's eterne survival, 

Autumn will be winter's rival. 

IX. 
Thou mayest louder sing to us. 

Bard of Suffolk, but, O, never 
Shall thy " chambered Nautilus" 

Quite forgotten be forever ! 
That " Last Leaf," through all the ages, 
Will yet rustle in thy pages. 

X. 

Bard of Surrey, though thy lay 

Trance afar the Jovian ridges, 
Still thy brook will sing its way 

Past the all-enchanted bridges ; 
And thy Knights will keep their tourney 
Though the earth forget her journey. 
Boston Advertiser, November 15, 1889. 



MARGIE 



MARGIE. 

That lovely brook, I see it 

Still flashing in the sun ; 

And she and I are children 

Once more in Idlington ; 

And Margie on the bank there, 

I see as she used to look, 

Those summer days when she played with me, 

On the borders of the brook. 



What wonderful ships and shallops 
I made for Margie then, 
With leaves and grass for cargoes, 
And sticks and straws for men : — 
And what brave names we gave them- 
"Orlando," " George-a-Green," 
" Sir Galahad," " King Pellemore," 
" The Cid " and " Sir Cauline ! " 



We cared not much for traffic. 
Yet our captains and our mates 
Brought often the honey of Hybla, 
And Tunis figs and dates ; 



70 



But when love called or honor, 
We sent our vessels out 
In aid of all who needed them, • 
With many a cheer and shout. 

We wrote to Robinson Crusoe, 

That we hoped, now Friday was gone. 

He would come straight over and see us, 

With all his goat-skins on ; 

And bring the poll-parrot with him. 

So when they stepped on shore, 

We should know them both and take them home, 

Never to wander more. 

As the seasons changed, so we did ; — 
In spring we dreamed of fame ; 
And in summer of autumn's riches ; 
And when October came. 
We stripped the yellow gold-trees 
And sent our ill-got gain 
In caravels to Andaluce, 
Across the Spanish Main. 

That lovely brook, — I know not 
Just where it comes from now, — 
But in those days it wandered — 
As Margie could avow — 
Right out from far Cipango, 
And merrily ran on 
Till it came to the fairy fields this side 
The valley of Avalon. 



MARGIE 

It heard in Sherwood Forest 
Brave Kobin's bugle-calls ; 
And carried off the music 
To dash it on the walls 
Of the city of Manoa ; 
And could be seen afar, 
In clearest air from Samarcand, 
And near to Candahar. 

Sometimes I see the windings 
Of that brook as in a dream, 
While it flows away to the sunset ; 
And here and there the stream 
Is touched with a light so tender 
That it seems to my loving eyes, 
The course of a beautiful human life 
Ending in Paradise. 

And plans and schemes are the vessels, 
And hope is the wind that blows. 
And all good aims are the harbors, 
And time is the tide that flows ; — 
And then again all changes, 
And I see ourselves once more — 
Dear Margie and a little boy 
Playing along the shore. 

Youth's Companion, May 21, 1891. 



71 



72 SAINT Goethe's night 



SAINT GOETHE'S NIGHT. 

Where calm in bronze great Goethe stood, 
The old man dropped his load of wood, 

And clasping his brown hands in prayer 
Knelt like another statue there : 

One only of the passers-by 

On Gottlieb turned a kindly eye ; 

For never before, nor by any hap, 
Did sweeter soul tip student's cap ; 

And when the old man raised his head, 
" Your servant, Sir ! " tall Martin said. 

" I know not," the old man replied, 
" What saint this is nor when he died ; 

" But in all my life I have not seen 
So dear a saint in face and mien." 

"Ay," said Martin ; " Saint Goethe here 
Is the saint for me of all saints in the year '' 

And a smile like a burst of sunshine broke 
Over the young man's face while he spoke. 



SAINT GOETHE S NIGHT 73 

" O, then, I shall sell my bundle of pine," 
Old Gottlieb replied, " for bread and wine " ! 

" You look so tired," stout Martin said, 
" I will carry the pack instead ; 

"And you and I will seek some hall 
Where they hold the dear saint's festival." 

Not slowly Gottlieb's heart now beat, 
As they suddenly entered from the street, 

Where, thick as trees in his mountain wood, 
A hundred more like Martin stood, 

Cap on head and glass in hand, 
Chanting a song of the Fatherland ; 

And Gottlieb felt his heart grow young 
To hear the song the Burschen sung. 

And while all gazed with moistened eyes, 

" O Jove," one cried, " what a prize ! what a prize ! 

" This is the wood to make burn bright 
The torches of Saint Goethe's night ! 

" You may call it pine if you like, but we 
Know well the heart of the sandal-tree ; 

" Perceive you not the rich perfume 
It sheds already through the room ? 

" It is an odor that but for the smell 

Of this cloud of smoke, you would know full well ; 



74 SAINT qoethe's night 

" Nay, na}'-, the saint would be shocked, indeed, 
Should we take for nothing the wood we need ! 

" We must give you at least a bran-new suit 
And a cap and boots and a warm surtout, 

*'And bread and wine and beer afoam, 
And a donkey to carry you safely home." 

Grand, at length, in his new corduroy, 
And weeping still, though full of joy, 

The woodman followed the setting sun. 
On and on, till the day was done. 

Long time had Gottlieb's wife to wait 
The step of her goodman at the gate ; 

So sick at heart she could not spread 
The noonday meal, but sat instead 

At her spinning-wheel and watched the hour 
On the dial of the distant tower, 

While her frequent glance went up and down 
The dusty highway to the town ; 

But all in vain ; until at last 
The sun set and she saw aghast 

Near the gate in the dusk, a ghost or a witch, 
Or a thief or a bear — she knew not which : 

But when old Gottlieb's donkey brayed, 
Fraii Barbara fell on her knees and prayed ; 



SAINT Goethe's night 75 



For she saw no longer a witch or an elf, 

But believed it no less than the devil himself. 

Now suddenly broke upon their ears 
A distant sound, as of mighty cheers ; 

And turning, they saw far up and down. 
Lights coming toward them from the town ; 

And gazed intent, while nearer drew 
The long procession, two by two : 

But when at last by his own gate 
He saw the gleaming torches wait, 

And the same chant rose, even more sublime, 
Which he had heard in the morning-time, 

Then Gottlieb murmured : " These must be 
The lads who bought my wood of me." 

And while he marveled, the bright array 
Formed into ranks and moved away : 

Long time the woodman and his dame 
Watched the bright but lessening flame 

Of the torches burning clear ; 
And heard afar, or seemed to hear. 

The burden of the song that still 
Ran echoing from hill to hill ; 

But when the flooding moonlight made 
The far-off stars and torches fade 



76 SAINT Goethe's night 

They turned, surprised that now no more 
They saw the white walk by the door ; 

But in its place a glittering show 
Of heaped-up hampers all arow ; 

And Gottlieb, knowing well whence came 
This treasure-trove, now told his dame, 

In tones that trembled with delight, 
Whose wood had made the torches bright ; 

And what good saint had just sent down 
The lads that loved him from the town. 



THE FIGHTING PARSON 



THE FIGHTING PARSON. 

It was brave young Parson Webster, 
His father a parson before him, 
And here in this town of Temple 
The people used to adore him ; 
And the minute-men from all quarters 
That morning had grounded their arms 
Round the meeting-house on the hilltop, 
Looking down on Temple fanns. 



Dear to the Puritan soldier 

The food which his meeting-house offered, 

And especially dear the fine manna 

Which the young Temple minister proffered ; 

And believe as he might in his firelock, 

His bayonet, or his sword, 

The minute-man's heart was hopeless 

If not filled with the strength of the Lord. 



The minute-man ever and always 

Waited the signal of warning, 

And he never dreamed in the evening 

Where his prayers would ascend the next morning ; 



78 THE FIGHTING PARSON 

And they even said that the parson 
Undoubtedly preached his best 
When his musket stood in the pulpit 
Ready for use with the rest. 

Sad was the minister's message, 
And many a heart beat faster, 
And many a soft eye glistened, 
Whenever the voice of the pastor 
Dwelt on the absent dear ones 
Who had followed their country's call 
To the distant camp, or the battle, 
Or the frowning fortress- wall. 

And now when near to " fifteenthly," 
And the urchins thought of their nuncheon, 
And into the half-curtained windows 
Hotter and hotter the sun shone. 
And the redbreast dozed in the branches. 
And the crow on the pine tree's top, 
And the squirrel was lost in his musings, 
The sermon came to a stop. 

For sharp on the turnpike the clatter 
Of galloping hoofs resounded, 
And the granite ring of the roadway 
Louder and louder sounded ; 
And now no longer the redbreast 
Was inclined to be dull that day, 
And now no longer the sexton 
Slept in his usual way. 



THE FIGHTING PARSON 79 

But all sprang up on the instant, 

And the widest of eyes grew wider 

While on towards the porch, like a tempest, 

Came sweeping the horse and its rider ; 

And now from the din of the hoof-beats 

A trumpet voice leapt out, 

And, tingling to its rafters. 

The church was alive with the shout, — 

" Burgoyne 's at Ticonderoga : 
Would you have the old fort surrender?" 
" No, no ! " cried the parson ; " New Hampshire 
Will send the last man to defend her ! " 
But before he could shoulder his musket 
A Tory sang up from below, 
" I hear a great voice out of heaven, sir, 
Warning us not to go." 

Quick from the pulpit descending, 
With the agile step of a lion, — 
"The voice you hear is from hell, sir! " 
Replied the young servant of Zion. 
And out through the open doorway. 
And on past the porch he strode. 
And the congregation came after, 
And gathered beside the road. 

Sadly enough the colonel. 
The minute-men all arraying. 
From the dusty cocked hat of the rider 
Drew the lots for going or staying. 



80 THE FIGHTING PARSON 

Then waving his hat as he took it, 
And putting his spurs to his mare, 
The stranger rode off to New Ipswich 
In a cheering that rent the air. 

Worse than the shock of battle 

Now came the sad leave-taking, 

And to mothers and maids and matrons 

The deepest of grief and heart-aching; 

And far on the road through the moimtains 

Whence the rider had just come, 

They followed the minute-men marching 

To the sound of the fife and the drum. 

Long dead have they been who sat there 
At that feast of things eternal — 
Long dead the laymen, the deacons, 
The lawyer, the doctor, the colonel ; 
Long dead the youths and the maidens. 
And long on the graves of all 
Have the summers and the winters 
Their leaves and their snows let fall. 

But whenever I come to the churchyard, 
Where, by the side of the pastor, 
They afterwards laid the colonel, 
His friend in success and disaster, 
I see again on the common 
The minute-men all in array. 
And again I behold the departure, 
The pastor leading the way. 



THE FIGHTING PARSON 81 

And I think of the scene when his comrades 

Brought back the young pastor, dying, 

To his home in the house of the colonel ; 

And how, on his death-bed lying. 

He took the hand that was offered, 

And, gazing far into the night. 

Whispered, " I die for my country — 

I have fought — I have fought the good fight." 

77*6 Century Magazine, May, 1890. 



82 THE DRUMMER 



THE DRUMMER. 

Away back in those happy times 

When we had Uttle left to vex us, 
On sea or land, save poets' rhymes 

And talk about annexing Texas ; 
While yet with all our men and boys 

'' Forward, march ! " was quite the fashion, 
And the liveliest of our joys — 

The old military passion — 
Was not yet grown cold and numb ; 



While still full many a household niche 

Enshrined the old-time regimentals, 
And town and country were yet rich 

With relics of the Continentals ; 
While still in splendid motley dressed. 

Wonderful to all beholders. 
Men were glad to march abreast 

With their muskets on their shoulders. 
To the sound of fife and drum — 



In one of those far distant years, 
About the time of early tillage. 

The proud Bandana Fusileers 
Were forming just above the village, 



THE DRUMMER 



83 



Full fifty and two hundred strong, 
For their usual march of glory 

Down the turnpike wide and long, 
Little dreaming the whole story 

Would be told in days to come, 



When suddenly the old snare-drum 

Pealed out so sharp and rang so cheery 
That every man was on the plumb, 

However old, however weary ; 
And lo, as down the lines they gazed, 

Wondering what could ail the drummer, 
In his place they saw, amazed, 

The most cm'ious newcomer 
Who had ever drummed a drum. 



For all the world as big around 

And jolly as a Punchinello, 
His white hat with bright scarlet bound, 

His old green jacket faced with yellow ; 
But who he was, or whence had fared 

That most iridescent figure, 
No one knew, and no one cared. 

While with such immortal vigor 
He discoursed upon the drum. 



It was a beat that would have stirred 
The pulses of the very coldest. 

And such a stroke had not been heard 
Within the memory of the oldest. 



84 THE DRUMMER 

Down on the drum's defenseless head 
Fell the sticks with such a clatter 

As few men, alive or dead, 
Ever dreamed of, for that matter — 

Drum, drum, drum, der-um, drum, drum ! 



And now" from every side uprose, 

Eesponsive to that roll and rattle, 
Great rounds of cheers resembling those 

Which rang along the Concord battle. 
When, pale as death with patriot ire. 

The undaunted Buttrick shouted,. 
" Soldiers, fire ! For God's sake, fire ! " 

And the British troops were routed, 
And at last the war was come. 



And so the glorious march began 

With here an opening, there a wheeling 
As if it were a living fan. 

In part concealing, part revealing, 
The secret of those fine deploys 

So bewildering to the senses 
Of the truant village boys 

Who now lined the walls and fences, 
Thinking of the day to come. 



Ah, nevermore along that street 
Will martial music more ecstatic 

Sweethearts and wives and children greet 
In parlor, oriel, or attic ; 



THE DRUMMER 85 



Ah, nevermore to cheer and shout 
Down that turnpike long and sandy 

Will such wizard notes ring out 
Of our " Yankee Doodle Dandy," 

From that old colonial drum. 



Ah me ! ah me ! to hear again 

That ruddy and gray-headed scorner 
Of all the woes that time can rain 

As down he swept round Tanyard Corner 
Or when he drummed his very best 

Near the elm tree by the Prestons', 
Or with very special zest 

At the halt in front of Weston's, 
Known so well in times to come ! 

For here it was upon that day 

The drummer gave his final touches ; 
And here it was that, strange to say, 

AVhile creeping by upon his crutches, 
The oldest man tho country round 

Suddenly before the drummer 
Stopped and gazed as one spellbound. 

" No man," sighed he, "but young Plummer 
Could so play upon a drum." 

" But he is dead, no doubt, no doubt." 
And while he stood there marveling greatly, 

The other in his turn spoke out, 
" It 's Boynton, whom we called ' The 
Stately.' " 



86 THE DRUMMER 

Ah, what a meeting ! Gracious heaven ! 

While in tears they kept repeating 
" Bennington " and " seventy-seven." 

" What a meeting ! what a meeting ! " 
Till it seemed no end would come. 

Of all that saw no eye was dry ; 

And nothing then would do but straightway 
To seize a carriage that stood by, 

Magnificent, in Barret's gateway, 
And carry both to Boynton's door. 

"Piny Farm," from that same summer. 
Was the hospitable shore 

Where the old and world-tossed drummer 
Lived for many years to come. 

The Century Magazine, July, 1891. 



AD ASTRA 87 



AD ASTRA. 

If thou hast diained to the lees 
The cup of inglorious ease, 
Think now on the mighty men ; 
Dream thou dost hear again 
The voice of Miltiades 
And the rustle of his laurels. 



See the stern purpose rise 

To Cortes' glittering eyes — 

To cut oif all retreat 

See him sink every ship in his fleet, 

Then sweep to his golden prize 

With not one plank behind him. 



Dost believe all is over and done 
And no hope is under the sun ? 
Then think on the mighty men ; 
Dream thou canst hear again 
The great shouts of Timoleon 
That rallied the flying army. 



88 AD ASTRA 



And yet not alone for the past 
Was the mold of heroes cast : 
Let the Alps and the Andes sr.y 
What breed t lere is to-day ; 
And the poles, and the jcea:y ^st, 
And the burning waste of Sa,':i vi i 

Think of the soul that ne'^r'-' 
No background for its def-d ? • 
Of him who bravely bears 
A mountain of lifelong care- , 
Of the heart that aches ana bi^edh 
And dies, but never surrendeT^, 

O, true man, bear thy pains 

And count thy losses gains ; 

Believe in the brave whom alone 

Heaven's eye hath seen and kuovn ; 

For as surely as justice reigns, 

Their reward will shine like their valor. 



The Century Magazine, December, 1S88. 

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